I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids Sprouting despondently at area gates.

The winter evening settles down With smell of steaks in passageways. Six o'clock. The burnt-out ends of smoky days. And now a gusty shower wraps The grimy scraps Of withered leaves about your feet And newspapers from vacant lots; The showers beat On broken blinds and chimney-pots, And at the corner of the street A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps. And then the lighting of the lamps.

For last year's words belong to last year's language And next year's words await another voice.

There is no absolute point of view from which real and ideal can be finally separated and labelled.

The usual dog about the town is much inclined to play the clown.

The endless cycle of idea and action, / Endless invention, endless experiment, / Brings knowledge of motion, but not of stillness; / Knowledge of speech, but not of silence; / Knowledge of words, and ignorance of The Word.

Some editors are failed writers, but so are most writers.